If death is letting go then life is small doses of dying.
In lamplight, a shadow trails a pen in love.
In this manner, always, there is recollection,
a tight-spaced box, crowding ghost words
in teaspoons and minutiae,
passing blips no scale registers.
On a stagnant page even the brightest words are shadowless.
In a cul-de-sac I turned, walked over you.
In a cul-de-sac the impossibility of apology.
A green pen, on a green pillow.
The flowering of blue ink thoughts, spilt like Rorschach -
when the mind is phrased to certain lips
and turns of tongue,
there is, always, that inability to return
a same meaning.
This is the blot of being two.